Summit
by JustForgettheWorld09
Summary: Vash is simply too tall, and that's all there is to it. A short look at Meryl's thoughts throughout the course of the series. Late Valentines day drabble for the "nose kiss" prompt and my Trigun OTP.


** A late little Valentines day challenge I wrote up for a series of kissing prompts; the one I ended up for Vash and Meryl was "nose kiss", which logically should have only been a paragraph like my others, but developed into this because I'm a helpless obsessive and like to procrastinate during finals. Hopefully a longer work concerning these two to come soon. In the mean time, please R&amp;R! It means a lot to me! :-)**

* * *

_"So lately, been wondering,_

_Who will be there to take my place._

_When I'm gone, you'll need love,_

_To light the shadows on your face." _

_ \- _**Wherever You Will Go **by The Calling

* * *

It's not her fault he's so tall.

It makes things...difficult, this pesky height business.

It makes him harder to slap, for one, when he _so _deserves it, drunkenly stumbling after some poor (cheaply dressed) girl when he should be acting his age, for heaven's sake. Acting like the feared and famed outlaw he is, instead of some grinning lecher who will hardly acknowledge the her, much less the seriousness of her venture. But she does, and usually manages a nice square blow to the jaw, enough to reel him back, blinking in surprise, (which is always somewhat satisfying) in the new-found knowledge that she means business.

It makes him harder to read, when she sits across from him mornings, under golden slanted sunlight when the night was filled with things she'd rather forget, and imagines he does too. And he dons those awful tinted glasses, and she's shut out, left to steal long looks from around her coffee and cream cake, and ponder if the being sitting across from her now is same man she knew in Inepril, when she can hardly find the words to speak and every move he makes sets her on edge. But she does, and eventually she sees in his eyes what he wants to hide under those tragically catchpenny glasses, and it's more than she's ever felt, and she regrets it immediately.

It makes him harder to argue with, when things have suddenly switched to the serious, and she knows she knows best but he doesn't seem to be really listening, so she can only stand directly in front of him, on her toes, fists shaking at her hips and demand he allow them to _do their job _while she wills her lip not to tremble. But he's taller than her, and though half the time he's a sop who'll carry them halfway across the desert in fear of her temper, now that it matters, now that it's her safety or his, he will not budge, eyes cold and angry as he reiterates his demand (of all things). But she does, and in end it's stalemate; because Meryl may only be five-two but she's a career woman and nothing if not determined and _she will not lose him_, not again, and he is helpless, unable to hurt her to protect her.

It makes him harder to hold, when the night stretches on and on, and all that separates them now are thin wooden walls, and the yawning years of grief finally crashing down unchecked. And even though, in the scheme of things, she's still a stranger, she knows she's all he has; and crosses the hall in her barefeet and nightshirt. Feverish and tense and wounded, he's still a pain to handle, bundled in blankets and shaking with silent sobs, too damaged to rest, even through injury, too tortured to grant himself full sleep even after days of unconsciousness. But she does, and manages to force herself between him and his nightmares, in the quiet moments he'll never remember. Small arms around him until his whole body goes tense, and then slowly, relaxes, pulling her nearer until he's buried his head in her shoulder, trembling, and she doesn't know what she is to him, in dreams or reality, but right then it doesn't matter; because he needs her, and being there is a privilege enough.

It makes him harder to kiss.

Not that she's thought about it, despite what Milly likes to insinuate in her own way (her only truly immature quality, really), and despite what her subconscious mind likes to tease her with, in dreams where she wakes seconds before...well, no one controls what they dreams. But she's proven right, when eggs crack against the pan with violence and a hiss of contact, and someone opens the front door, and it isn't Milly because Milly's home, upstairs. And she hears the thump of something heavy being set on the couch (over the thump of her heartbeat) and knows only one person who would walk right in and invade their couch, and hears that person, senses and smells that person come behind her, and wrap two long lanky arms around her waist, as if to say, _I'm back, humanity is saved, what's for dinner?_ But she spins on him, before he can do, or say, anything stupid, fingers curling around the collar of his shirt, pulling down, while she lifts onto her tip-toes, and the combined motions allow her to plant one quick, precise kiss on that stupid face.

She misses, a little, and gets the tip of his pointy nose instead. But it takes him completely by surprise (ha!), and she can see into his eyes and his eyes quickly start to smile, and before she can regret her actions, he takes full advantage of his height, leaning with hands on her shoulders to return the favor, warm sun-chapped lips on the pert little end of her (already somewhat red) snout.

And she'd _like _to smack him for his satisfied grin, she really would; but her eggs are burning, and after all, he's just a little too tall to reach.


End file.
